The Day the Earth Stole Heaven
by PianoxLullaby
Summary: Bakura, the embodiment of the jazz devil, intoxicates the dainty maid, Namine. Inspired by Nine Horses' The Day the Earth Stole Heaven.
1. Let Me Tell You 'Bout a Friend

**1. Let Me Tell You 'Bout a Friend  
**As abysmal as these streets were, there was always a white dove in heels that found her little way through the alleys, trudging through the grime of this pathetic city's scum, inhaling their cancer smoke and gliding over broken glass. Her skin was as white as her dress, hair the lightest color of blonde, eyes striking blue, lips red as the queen's roses. This dainty damsel passed through this dark territory almost every day, and Bakura had taken note of her presence.

Owner of the Jank Jazz and Juice Club, Bakura had a sinister and thriving reputation among these streets. With men like him running around, it was a wonder why such frail young women would ever come around. Women with soft hands, plump cheeks, doily eyelashes. Women that were taken care of and privileged. Women like that white dove in heels.

In passing, she had always given the jazz club a glance, entranced in the soul that seemed to explode from beyond the glass. Even the pouring rain over her white umbrella couldn't drown it. It had intoxicated her so thoroughly until she, one day, finally decided to take a step inside.

She stood out like a sore thumb, her brightness blinding in comparison to the muted tones and the blackness that wallowed in the corners. Her flowery perfume, with a slight hint of mild spice, became entangled with the bitter smells of Vodka, Jagger, and Liquor. The Saxophone player on stage played a song that felt created to seduce her, and the smell of all the alcohol in the room seemed to give her just enough of a buzz, a placebo effect, perhaps.

Her eyes wandered around the club, and she saw the boarded and broken windows that made this place feel like a prison, but the strangest, most attractive type of prison she had ever seen.

_Let the children come to me..._

His voice was like something that spoke from her belly and crawled up to her ears. She had never listened to Jazz before, and it had become a love at first sound. It made her feel so absolutely calm, so absolutely and distinctly lulled in the darkness that slithered in the world.

_Let the children come to me..._

And then her eyes wandered to him; Bakura. He sat in the back, long, and lanky. How had she not noticed him before, he stood out nearly as badly as she did with that white mane of his and that red tie that seemed to pierce. It may very well have been the only bit of color in the club. And even from where she stood, she could see his long, white lashes over his black eyes. He was so terribly attractive to her, like the embodiment of her new, jazz lover. The poison smoke he let free from his lips seemed to dance about his head, inviting her over. She knew he saw her staring at him, and she felt as though he were pulling her closer, like some invisible force she couldn't deny.

The white dove made her way through the crowd of drunkards and heroine addicts, made her way through the mess of broken bottles and vomit. She felt her heart beat. **Bump.** Another step. **Bump bump. **Did she know how to breathe anymore? **Bump.** She felt their eyes locked. **Bump bump.**

_Let the children come to me..._

He took another puff on his cigarette, looking at her with small eyes, shoulder still rested on the bar behind his seat, leg still rested on the barstool. She was desperate for his voice.

"Jazz has many lovers; sinners, the broken hearted and the down-trotted," and another puff, "but Jazz does not love the privileged or the beautiful. Just what is a spark of light like you doing on my streets?"

She could still feel the beating of her heart against her chest. "But isn't that what makes Jazz so beautiful? So passionately melancholy? I swear, I've known it all my life." Bakura chuckled, shaking his head.

He flicked the ash onto the floor. This club was made only for trash anyways. "You, my little light, couldn't hope to understand it. It's a dark mistress, a black ghost that befriends only the dark and the hopeless. You, my dear, my white light, should never even come by here. Your purity is at risk just being in this place."

Not for one moment did she take her eyes off of him. "But what if I want to understand it? What if I wanted my purity at risk?" She seemed so desperate, it was almost hilarious.

Bakura took another long puff of his cigarette, finishing it off with a conniving smile, giving the young maid a daring look. "And just what do you call yourself, my jazz virgin?"

By now, they were extremely close in proximity, he calm and suave as ever, she shaking and out of breath. "Namine. My name is Namine."

He grinned. "A name as beautiful as your face." He came closer, his forehead nearly pressing against hers, his voice just barely a whisper. "You're shaking, Namine. Are you so sure you're ready to understand? Are you so sure you're ready to leave your world of light and enter my dark void? Are you so sure?"

Namine thought for a moment, swallowing and closing her eyes as though it gave her a bit of solitude as she thought, though it didn't help; he was still just on the other side of that blackness. She took another breath and nodded. "Y-yes."

He grinned devilishly and pulled his arm around her, pulling her even closer, which before she didn't believe could be possible. "This probably wouldn't make for the best place to initiate you into our black abyss. Perhaps someplace more... private?" **Bump. Bump bump. Bump. Bump bump.**

Around the dim, green-yellow light of the bar, over the hole in the floorboards where you could see the rats run to and fro, to the left down a narrow hallway, squeeze past the drunk, pants yet unzipped, as he tumbles back into the club from the restroom, and squeeze past the skinny whore and her sleazy one-night lover to enter his office. Gray light from the world above the slums tried to pry its way through the broken blinds on the windows, desk scattered with papers and beer bottles, a chair toppled over, frames crooked, some barely hanging on the nail, books laying on the floor on their open pages in Bakura's office. Namine continued to look around, found herself a small cot, and finally realized that this office was his home, his sanctuary.

He led her around him, patting the clear edge of the desk to beckon her rump to rest there. She nervously hopped up, knees together and knuckles white around the handle of her umbrella, her ears still barely able to make out the sound of that saxophone and singer in the club around the corner. He took the umbrella from her and tossed it to the floor, and she jumped and he laughed.

Her embodiment of jazz love came closer, hands groped around the tops of her thighs, sliding down to her knees and forcing them open and around his waist. She felt her balance fail, and she caught herself on a stack of papers from the other side of the desk, throwing more books onto the floor and breaking a lamp as it fell with them. The corners of his mouth seemed to reach his ears and his eyes seemed to look right through her. He reached under her white dress, tickling around her hips for her undergarments. Namine had no control here, but she would rather her heart burst from her chest than make herself a fool to run back home to the city above.

She was falling backwards, and without thinking, grabbed onto him in order to keep upright. She didn't know how to feel about the course of action, she didn't know whether to let go or not, but he was already pulling her panties from off of her and tossing them aside on the floor, wrapping an arm around her back and unbuckling his belt with the other hand. Namine swallowed again, maybe about to cry from nervousness. His lips found her neck, sucked on her like a vampire-beast and stole her breath from her. He pulled her bottom closer to him and she felt something against her skin that she had never felt before and she felt the butterflies in her belly tickle her until it was unbearable. There was no going back.

His hand went down the top of her dress, grabbed at her breasts as he took her for himself, claiming her body as his own. At this moment, she was a slave to his darkness, a servant to his demonic desires. He made her into his prostitute, made her into his woman of night. And she held onto him tightly, almost as if to beg him to go easier on her, but part of her didn't want that at all. How far would she let him go? How much of her purity would he remove in this instant?

He let her fall down onto the desk, papers flying around them, pink breasts free from behind the frills of that dress, continuing his initiation, his destruction of her innocence.

_Give yourself over, pushing your consciousness deep into every atom and cell..._

And she cried loudly into that abysmal office. So this is what impurity felt like? So this is was love felt like? Where had her breath gone off to? Where was this feeling all her life? Why hadn't she run to the slums years ago, run into the darkness of the city below?

Bakura stood over her, unbuttoning his waistcoat and under-shirt and throwing them to the ground. "And now, my little light, you can enter into our world. Now, you can call jazz your lover." With that, he put himself away and left for the bar, shutting the door behind and leaving her sprawled out on the desk. Alone and in a little pain. Unchivalrous, unpleasant, unloved. And she cried into the night.

* * *

**Lully: **_Have I mentioned that I LOVE writing fics about Bakura and Namine? Well, I actually like shipping Ryou Bakura and Namine, but I had this idea and I just had to go with it. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I am writing it! Constructive criticism is always welcome!_


	2. She Contends She Will Always Love Me

**2. She Contends She Will Always Love Me  
**It almost always seemed to pour rain here. From the pollution of the light city above the slums. An acid rain that destroyed, sank into the skin of the villagers and destroyed their morals and dignity. The light created darkness from above to below. This was a new world Namine had only just begun to grow familiar with.

She had fallen so deeply and madly in love with her jazz lover, her gruff man of darkness and impurity, he who consumated her marriage with the slums. Though, he had disappeared and she found herself distraught. She needed his approval, his attraction to her as she had for him. She felt silly in her frills and dainty whites in this land of darkness and disgust. She felt the whores staring at her, giggling in the alley's at her little girlish dress-things. Her attire was so conservatively inappropriate, and for the first time, she found her dresses embarrassing.

Namine tip-toed around the streets, lost and confused. Where exactly could she find for herself some garments more suitable to her new home? Where might those prostitutes purchase their scanty-wear?

The oxygen was drowned out by the poison smoke, as per the usual in the club. A brawl had broken out, and it so entertained Bakura. Destruction was beautiful; bringing everything down to its most basic roots. When someone pulled you apart, you couldn't hide anything anymore. It was a liberating course of action, a liberating thought. The club was his church, the drunks and whores his sheep and he the prophet of obliteration and discord. He brought them a false love as only jazz could, as only alcohol and drugs and paid-sex could. Bakura was the demon of the slums, the devil in the dark.

Rust and decay grew like wildfire here, like wildfire in his lungs and under his filthy fingernails. _So passionately melancholy? _He chuckled. This bitch was so entranced with the darkness, so naive dancing with it. But darkness was only beautiful in music, only beautiful in pictures. To really dance with it was to break your soul, give it up to the monsters in your belly, a snake eating its tail, a sinister suicide.

The impure dove returned to the club, dress ripped at the belly and dangerously close to the breasts, hair soaked; she never picked up that umbrella again. She spotted her lover and took a seat beside him at the bar, he still watching the drunken brawl and the spewing blood just feet in front of him.

"I've been looking everywhere for you. I... never got the chance to ask you, what's your name?" Her voice was still so gentle, so timid and little. She stared at the lit cigarette, the embers at the end of the stick, followed it up to his lips; cracked and scabbed. What must it be like to breathe fire? She took the cigarette from his hands, brought it to her own soft, red lips, inhaled fire.

He watched her, almost annoyed that she would dare take something from him. If either of them were to take anything from the other, it would be him from her, not vice versa. This ignorant bitch really knew nothing of this world. She coughed horrendously, tears coming to her eyes. "Bakura... Take my cigarettes again and I'll send you straight back where you came from."

Something about his coldness was so seductive to her. She never knew anyone like him and she was obsessed. He would be her muse for sure. He was her opposite and everything she wanted to see in herself. She would adopt his spirit into herself and become him. Namine still felt him in her belly from the night before, still felt his presence sitting inside her and scratching at her ribcage.

She nodded, still recovering from her coughing fit. "Tell me, where might I find clothes like what those women in the alleys wear?"

He finished off his cigarette, grimacing at the lipstick stains Namine had left behind. "I'll find you some. Maybe I'll send you with Mai tonight after dark. She'll get you situated."

A pang of jealousy. She came closer to him, pressing her breast ever so lightly against his elbow. Why did he seem so distant to her? It drove her crazy! "And... who is Mai, exactly?"

Bakura grinned, almost laughing to himself. The naivety of this dame. "She runs the whore house on the corner of Trepid and Vanity. Mai's Valentines. It's very... Moulin Rouge, very... 'high class,'" he chuckled.

Namine couldn't help but wonder just how closely associated Mai must've been to Bakura. She couldn't bear the idea of him with another woman. She needed him, his atrocious affection. "What sort of woman would you choose from such a place?"

"A tight one that didn't speak unless spoken to. That's the only kind of woman to fuck around this place if you want to relax and enjoy yourself." He started up another cigarette, possibly on his third or fourth one now, he stopped counting.

_Hello, Neighbor..._

That voice swam around her head, making her dizzy.

_Benevolent mile, they smother the child, the perpetrators are in denial..._

"Who is this man? And the woman singing in the background? Who are they Bakura? They're voices are so... so captivatingly beautiful and exotic!" She let her ears embrace the sounds, the music she would throw herself at if given the chance.

He smiled, flicking more ash onto the brawlers. "They would be Malik and Ishizu Ishtar, my desert blood-flowers. I'd steer clear of them if I were you, my dainty princess. Malik has been known to change faces and Ishizu will do anything to cover up his sins. A beautiful set of sinister siblings." Namine stared at that long, shaggy blonde hair, that bronze skin and melancholy glare. Why was everyone here so beautiful. "Malik killed his father, and that's where it all started. They've always been accustomed to the dark. Most people, if born in it, can never find refuge in the world above. This is our sanctuary. The sanctuary of sinners."

_The banality of evil..._

"When will I be allowed to call this place my sanctuary, Bakura? When can I make jazz my lover?" When can I make you mine?"

"I'll decide when thats possible, my dear. Live in the streets for a while, maybe you'll learn our ways. You look good wet, anyways." He smirked at her, delighted in the pleading look she gave him. It was painfully obvious she had never been without shelter a day in her life, never been responsible for herself or her shelter. The slums would mold her into a she-devil. She was yet a blank canvas.

Her heart sank. Her lover was so cruel and dimented. So dastardly beastly. But she was so desperate for him, his body against hers again. He'd poisoned her in the deepest way. She would do anything for him. She would bathe in tar for him.

She was shown out the door and into the rain. Shown what it was like to be worthless and alone. To be a tiny speck of life in a universe unending. Namine was oh-so small, so frail and uncalloused. She shook in the rain, dripping wet and hungry. When was the last time she ate? And then she realized, she had no money with her... It was there in Bakura's office, thrown about on the floor where they married her into the slums. She'd been made poor and destitute. **Bump. Bump bump. Bump. Bump bump.** What was she expected to do to live? And everywhere, she felt stares on her frozen body.


End file.
